Why did I ever worry about the frat party?

It's natural to be wary, after what happened to Caleb. And Mila said it herself: she knew exactly what frat guys were like. Only good can come from looking after yourself.

But good can also come from letting yourself go once in a while.

The Gamma Nu Sigma house is huge, and the music's so loud it makes my ears throb, and for once I don't mind that there are so many people here because I'm with a big group myself. Having the girls here feels like being surrounded by a protective shield; nobody else can touch me. They're fun but level-headed, dancing and laughing together, but pulling in the circle tighter whenever a frat boy gets too friendly. They keep their cups covered and never leave them unattended. They all look out for each other—and tonight that includes me.

If anywhere is a safe place to have a few drinks, it's here.

Now I'm starting to understand the appeal. Like some kind of magic tonic, I feel breezy and carefree, which isn't something a chronic overthinker like me often gets to enjoy. I'm worrying less about what the people around me think. Whether they recognize me. Already have an opinion on me. Are mentioning my name in conversations I'm not part of—because, really, who cares? It doesn't stop me from having a good time, and I've already achieved what I set out to do tonight: stop thinking about David.

I dance, and I sing along to the songs I recognize, and I smile like I'm supposed to when Mila introduces me to various other people. I learn more names than I know I'll be able to recall the next morning. And the alcohol makes me happy, so I accept each time I'm offered a drink, because why wouldn't I want to stay happy?

I'm still in that giddy-drunk phase when I separate from the girls and set off in search of a bathroom. It takes me more than a few clumsy steps and several wrong doors, but I find one eventually. The room is as spacious and beautiful as the rest of the house—with huge marble tiles, a waterfall-style shower, and an array of spotlights over the sink. But it's also clearly wasted on a bunch of boys. Grubby-looking hand towels, toothpaste stains and an irritating number of almost-empty shower gel bottles take away just as much as the décor adds.

Caleb would've lived in a place like this, if he'd made it that far.

No, no, no. I'm having a good night, and if that's going to continue, I can't think about Caleb. Not at all. I shake my head like this will physically expel the thoughts, and at least temporarily it seems to work.

I lock the door and use the toilet. It's while I'm washing my hands—and wondering what else I can dry them on to avoid touching the suspiciously grimy towels—that I'm interrupted by two female voices on the other side of the door.

"You didn't see her?"

"Who?"

"Morgan Cain. You know the one. She was dating that sophomore, Josh Kelley, when he drowned in the lake last year."

"Oh, shit," one voice says, after a pause. "That was her?"

"You wouldn't think it, right? She's obviously drunk out of her mind. She didn't even seem to notice all the guys ogling her when she was dancing in that skirt—all of them looking at her like she was a piece of meat. Thank God her friends seemed to be keeping them at bay, because I don't think she'd be able to do it herself."

"It's sad," the other girl agrees. "She must be going through some real shit. But you'd think she'd be more careful—after everything that happened with that Josh guy."

"I know. I didn't know him personally, but I know a lot of people that did. They all thought he had a heart of gold. Wouldn't in a million years have guessed he'd ever do something like that. But, I don't know... do you not think his girlfriend would've had more of a clue?"

"What do you mean? You think he did something to her, too?"

Another pause. I'm now frozen behind the door, my hands dangling in the sink, not daring to move a muscle. "Nobody knows, do they?" comes the answer. "But if you ask me... there must have been warning signs. Something like that doesn't just come out of the blue."

That's it—I can't listen anymore. I'm hit by a wave of sudden, brutal nausea, but all I want to do is get out of the bathroom and as far away as possible. I can't do this. I thought I didn't care, but I do. I can't stay here and hear people talking about me like a subject of speculation, the poor little victim with no voice. Like the flip of a switch, the alcohol in my system has turned from a warm buzz to pure poison. Good drunk has suddenly turned to very, very bad drunk. And from there, there's no going back.

I throw open the door before I can think twice. It puts me face to face with the two girls who've been talking about me, the reveal sharp and abrupt, giving neither side anywhere to hide. There's momentary relief in the fact I don't recognize either of them—they're just nameless faces from somewhere across campus—but it's the equivalent of a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. I'm mortified; they're horrified.

I push past them and dash down the hallway.

Tears are brimming, the nausea is worsening, and to top it all off the room has started spinning, too. It's getting harder and harder to put one foot in front of the other: all it takes is one wrong move for me to stumble, falling to my knees with a crash. Several people look in my direction, and I can hear voices asking if I'm okay, but I don't want any of their concern. If they recognize me, they'll only be thinking what those two girls said aloud—and I'll be able to see it in their eyes.

It doesn't matter what I say or how I act. I'm a victim.

But my behavior tonight has also marked me out as something else. Careless. Irresponsible. Asking for something else to happen.

The frat house is an impossible labyrinth, and I'm getting more and more worked up the longer I stay inside. My breathing comes thick and fast, the nausea almost at boiling point; if I don't get outside sharpish, I'll spill my guts all over their expensive carpet. And that's probably the only thing that could make this night worse.

Eventually, though, I set eyes on the front door and manage to burst outside. I make it just clear of the crowd before my stomach clenches, and then I'm doubled over and vomiting into one of the front yard bushes.

By the time my insides stop writhing, I'm crying. The floodgates open and I can't stop, even though people are staring and I know it makes me look pathetic. There's a hand on my arm as yet another person tries to ask me if I'm okay, but I shake them off and start walking, stumbling, sobbing.

I need to be alone.

But at the same time, I can't bear the thought—I need someone, anyone, who stands a chance of making this better.

As I start walking away from the frat house, in the direction of campus, my fingers act of their own accord and fumble for my phone in my bag. I can barely see the screen through my teary vision, but on a level of consciousness above the drunken haze I know exactly what I'm searching for.

I tap the name and press the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

His voice makes me cry harder, although I'm not sure why. He sounds bleary, confused, like he's been yanked from sleep—but he's answered, and that's all that matters.

"Elliot," I manage to force out.

"Morgan?" his voice comes back. I hear shuffling, as if he's now sitting bolt upright in bed. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, what's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to wake you up, I just didn't know who else to call..."

There's more shuffling. "Morgan," he says, more urgently this time. "Tell me what's going on."

"I'm drunk," I tell him, with an aptly timed hiccup. "I know I don't drink, and I thought I was just going to have one, but it made me feel nice and made everything seem not so terrible and I don't know, I think I got carried away—"

"Where are you?"

I look around me. The world tips on its axis with the sudden movement; I have to catch myself before I stumble. I'm on Greek Row, somewhere along a line of sorority and fraternity houses: all of them towering mansions, with ornate pillars and sprawling balconies and glittering gold Greek lettering over the front door. I'm not lost, exactly—I know where this place sits on campus and roughly how to get back to my dorm—but my mind is so jumbled after tonight that it's hard to get my bearings.

"I'm on Greek Row," I tell him. "I've been to a party."

"A frat party?"

"Yes," I say, because even though I know how stupid I sound, it'll be worse if I lie. "It just... happened. I don't know what I was thinking. It's been a rough day. I was looking for a distraction."

"Are you still there?"

"No. I left. I had to get out of there. I'm walking home."

"On your own?"

"Yes."

"Morgan, your dorm is all the way on the other side of campus."

I don't need to be reminded. The cold has set in now, and I'm shivering inside the pathetic lacy top I'm wearing. An hour or two ago, the alcohol would've probably numbed the feeling—but now I'm sobering up, I feel every sharp degree. "I know."

I haven't asked anything of Elliot. I'm not even sure where I intended this conversation to go when I picked up the phone. But to him, the expectations seem clear. "I'm coming to meet you."

"What?"

"You shouldn't be wandering around campus alone right now," he says. "You said you're on Greek Row, right? My dorm's closer, so you can come back here."

It's an instruction, not an offer. And it's also so nice that I feel more tears forming in my eyes.

"You don't have to," I tell him. "I'm fine."

"Morgan, forgive me if I don't take your word for that right now." He pauses. "I'm leaving my dorm in the next couple of minutes. Carry on walking if you want, and I'll meet you at the end of the Row. Okay?"

"Okay," I mumble. Then, more quietly, "Thank you."

There's a pause, which stretches long enough to make me wonder if he heard me. It would probably be less embarrassing if he didn't. But then his voice sounds in my ear again, surprisingly close and comforting. "It's okay. I'll see you soon."

And he does, in remarkable timing. He lives in Liberty Hall, which is about ten minutes away from the Row at normal walking speed—but it can't be more than five before his figure appears in the distance. When he spots me, his pace quickens even more until he's broken into an actual jog.

By then, I've at least stopped crying.

"Morgan."

That's all he says, once he's in earshot. And somehow it's enough.

"I'm sorry," I say, even though I'm not certain what I'm apologizing for. Most simply, I feel like I owe him, and this is the first step to balancing that out. Standing here, with my make-up having run all over my cheeks, swaying on my feet, looking—once again—like the damsel in distress I don't want to be.

"You don't need to apologize."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't," he says, more firmly. "I would've come anyway."

And I believe him. Sheer timing aside, I can tell he's come here in a rush; he's wearing a pair of scruffy sweatpants that look suspiciously like pajamas, and his red hair is sticking up all over the place in a severe case of bedhead. In the most literal sense, he looks like he's just rolled out of bed.

"Thank you," I say again.

"It's nothing," he says, with a shake of his head. "Now, tell me, what's really going on?"

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There we go! For some reason I forgot this chapter even existed, but I just read it back to proofread and it surprised me with how much I love it. Morgan finally letting loose, realising she's at the centre of such a controversial issue, everything crashing down to reveal her sheer vulnerability... and then of course Elliot coming along with his heart of GOLD. YES.

I really hope you guys like this one as much as I do. As always, let me know in the comments and let's have a chat!

Until next time...

- Leigh